


Hang Your Head and Cry

by stuffilikeiwrite



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Pain, Possible Unrequited Love, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Steve Rogers Dies, Steve Saves Tony's Life and Pays the Price, Things left unsaid, Tony Stark Cries, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Will Never Know Now Will He
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24700489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffilikeiwrite/pseuds/stuffilikeiwrite
Summary: 'No. I’m decidedly not alright. I’m never going to be alright, none of us are ever going to be fucking alright,'Tony wanted to say, but he was convinced he would remain unable to form words even if he tried to.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Kudos: 39





	Hang Your Head and Cry

Steve was not coming back from this one. He was gone.

_God, it hurt._

The realization dawning on Tony felt like a gut punch, like all the air had been wrenched out of his lungs. If his composure was faltering; no one said anything. If he winced outwardly as the truth sunk in; no one seemed concerned. All eyes downcast; faces grim, gaunt and ashen with sorrow. Eyes glassy and watery, expressions hollow. Cheeks pale, noses red. 

A single, lone tear slid down Natasha's fair features. A barely perceptible wobble of Clint's lip. Sam's face set hard; Bucky's forehead creased and his nostrils flaring as he restrained the wetness pooling at the corners of his eyes. Rhodey eerily silent; Wanda and Vision crestfallen, their fingers laced together - clinging to one another.

Tony was the only one still standing upright, his back halfway turned towards the rest of the remaining team. Left to pick up the pieces, left to try to move on with a core member sorely missing. The seat that would have belonged to one Steve Rogers distractingly empty; the impact of that visage all the more prominent. That seat belonged to a hero; to a man who had died taking a stab directly to the heart. A beacon of hope and light, a supersoldier who had died jumping in front of _a feeble man in a tin can_. 

Said man in a tin can who, at the time, had been all but shredded to pieces, broken, charred; torn apart. The trashed mechanics and cybernetics exposing more flesh than it covered. Said tin can, who remembered only bits and pieces of the event; who had been fading in and out of consciousness. Who recalled the taste of iron bubbling up in his mouth; remembered the expression on Captain America's exhausted face as the life drained from him. Who had felt only the sharp bouts of pain as he breathed; body well aware of the piercing ache his injuries radiated.

Now, Tony curled his hands into tight fists. The crackling of the documents he'd been holding in his hands loud as a gunshot, ricocheting off the walls in the gloom of heavy silence. His fingers felt numb; his chest heaving with every attempt at keeping his oxygen intake level. Everyone was waiting for his verdict. Tony always had been their leader, alongside Steve. He always had a plan, a witty remark to make the group smile even in the bleakest of situations. 

But right now, his head was stunningly empty. He felt like he was on drugs; like every single thought in his head had evaporated until only the basic necessities remained. Like he was moving in slow motion, like he was breathing underwater, like his perception was dulled and distant as he remained unfocused. 

The team was looking to him now; even as he paid them little attention where he glimpsed their forlorn expressions out of his periphery. He felt his bottom lip begin to wobble, as he attempted to open his mouth to speak. No words came out; only a huff of air. His throat constricted; feeling tight and clogged up by the thick lump lodged in it. A ball of tears, urgently fighting to escape. Instinctively, he licked his chapped lips and clenched his jaw.

Tony's legs felt like they would give out under his weight, wobbling ever so slightly and he had to take a clumsy step forward to remain on his feet. 

He clenched his fists tighter; the creases in the documentation he held his hands turning to rips and tears, his skinned knuckles dotted with crimson blood as the scabs gave way - staining crisp white bandages. He clamped his teeth together, in a desperate attempt to stop his chin from quivering. The oh so familiar prickle of salty tears behind his eyes searing, like a red hot poker. The bridge of his nose burning with the strain, the effort of restraining himself. 

Tony bit his healing bottom lip; tasting the same tang of blood he had in that fateful moment he watched Steve Rogers die before his eyes. It made him sick with nausea, his stomach churning as if he might throw up. The cold sweat dotting his hairline, his forehead; beads trailing down the the back of his neck. Stubbornly, he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Tony?" said Natasha's soft, mournful tone. “Are you alright?

It cut like a dagger, and Tony's bandaged right hand shot up to hold her off. She took the cue, and once again the pregnant, oppressive silence bore down on the group’s shoulders like an unwanted intruder.

_'No. I’m decidedly not alright. I’m never going to be alright, none of us are ever going to be fucking alright,'_ he wanted to say, but he was convinced he would remain unable to form words even if he tried to. 

With the thumb and index finger of his left hand, he pinched unnecessarily hard at the bridge of his battered nose. Taking a couple of slow, deep breaths to feign off the rising panic and the bile in his throat. Mouth dry; eyes wet. The fucking taste of fresh blood refusing to let up; the smell of it lingering in his nostrils as an intrusive reminder. Tony opened his bleary dark eyes, and realized only then that his hands were trembling uncontrollably. Realized that there were red dots sprinkled along the chest of his crisp, white collared shirt. That there was something warm, and thick, and clotty trailing down his top lip to tangle itself in his mustache. No wonder his mouth tasted like death.

There had been _so much blood_. 

Tony had, in his haze, been unable to tell just how much much of it was his own, and how much of it was Steve's. In retrospect, he'd been horrified when he'd realized most if not all was Steve's. Steve's life force, seeping out of his body in rivulets and spurts of crimson from the open gash in his chest. And he'd smiled; bright blue eyes growing dimmer as his spirits had faded little by little. A weak, knowing smile. Inviting the inevitable. Genuine nonetheless; accepting his fate - a fate he perhaps always known he’d succumb to, and had already been preparing for. When Tony noticed and regained some sense of perception through the agony, it was already too late. 

As he looked up - brought back to the present - Tony blinked against the sharp, blinding artificial light source overhead. It stung his eyes, felt like shattered glass as he blinked frantically. And that was enough to set the building dam of tears free. The warm, sticky sensation as one glob lazily rolled its way down his bruised, scarred cheek to disappear into his beard. Then another. 

Tony released a throaty exhale; and the tiny whimpering sound that follow it filled him with shame. He attempted to inhale, to keep his breathing calm and periodic. It failed spectacularly as he sniffled; breath hitching in his already tightened throat. He recognized the feeling of being trapped all too well from numerous past panic attacks.

_Steve had smiled at him._

One weak, half exposed hand coming out to rest heavily over Tony's arc reactor. Fumbling about as if attempting to pat it, to reassure him. He'd mouthed something, but no words had come out. The ability to speak gone, and all Steve managed had been a rasp of breath and a cough - more dark blood spewing from his mouth. And that kind smile; as his head slowly lolled to the side and his eyes glazed over. As the pool of blood stained his cheek; clumping blond hair into a matted mess.

The first sob wrenched itself free; tearing from Tony's throat with a force that was nigh painful. 

Then another. Just as loud, just as harsh on his already tense chest and abdomen muscles. His entire body trembling against his will. The wetness welling up in his eyes until it spilled over in tiny streams; the tears unstoppable, irrevocable. And he couldn't hold them back anymore. 

With a whine of abandon; one conveying every ounce of regret and guilt, he covered his face with his hand and wept. Hard, choked sobs wracking his frame. His free arm coming around his waist, holding himself in a feeble attempt at consolation. Fingers clutching so hard at the fabric that they turned white; clinging to it tightly. He had failed not only Steve, but the team as well. He was supposed to stand tall, head held high; to put his personal distress and devastation aside.

What kind of a leader fell apart _this easily?_ This obviously? This awkwardly? He felt pathetic, but that emotion was soon drowned out by the agony of loss. The shame seeped into every ounce of his being.

When gentle arms came around him, pulling him close; Tony didn't initially welcome it. Neither did he fight back. 

Gently, he was turned around towards a warm, soothing embrace of comfort. He recognized the fragrance of vanilla perfume, even as he finally relented; eyes still shut while he blindly buried his face in soft red curls and cried. Cried like he never had before in his life. Not even as a teen when his father had slapped him across the face after a scalding argument; firmly solidifying Tony’s assumptions that he’d been unwanted and unworthy of Howard Stark’s love. Not even when faced with the truth that his parents - _his beloved mother_ \- had been assassinated on an abandoned, dusty country road.

Now, his wails were loud, and ugly, and unhinged. Until his temples pounded and sung with a dull throb; until he felt like he was going to pass out, his head swimming and tunnel vision kicking in. Holding tightly onto Natasha, hands clasping hard enough at her tiny shoulders to leave individual fingerprint bruises as she stroked his back. Allowing him to smear tears, and snot, and blood in an ungodly mess over the shoulder of her yellow satin blouse.

When the tears _finally_ subsided, whatever was left of his heart shattered and fractured; Tony remained in her soothing arms. Too mortified of his own breakdown to face the others, too overwhelmed by the realization that Steve was truly gone this time. Beyond saving. And left was only that one thought that would always nag at the back of his mind, the one that was never going to be addressed. The one regret Tony wished he’d been able to let out, the one he’d do anything to buy enough time to let slip.

He should have _told Steve the truth._

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love writing people, strong men especially, crying. Especially when they try so hard to hold back and restrain themselves, and ultimately fail anyway. Also, angst is my jam.
> 
> Also, having seen how well RDJ acts out crying, how realistically he manages to capture the agony - it's the _one thing_ I wish we would have gotten in the MCU, but never overtly did. So, I guess I had to write it myself.
> 
> So enjoy!


End file.
